


Dust from Moths' Wings

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, aftermath of assault, alpha pack, definitely not sassy peter hale, h/c eventually, werewolves have mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles, what happened?” Scott finds himself reaching to help Stiles again, and only manages to stop himself when he sees how Stiles’ eyes focus on his approaching hands like they’re great whites and he’s bleeding out. Scott takes two steps back, and Stiles stands unsteadily, bracing himself on the concrete wall and breathing heavily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Aftermath

Stiles recoils violently as Scott reaches for him, his scent sparking with fresh new fear, “Just don’t touch me, alright?”

Scott backs off immediately, hands raised in placation, “Sorry, you just--”

“I just look awful?” Stiles smiles a bitter smile, and clutches at his ripped shirt, unsteadily trying to rise to his feet, “Yeah, I bet.”

“Stiles, what happened?” Scott finds himself reaching to help Stiles again, and only manages to stop himself when he sees how Stiles’ eyes focus on his approaching hands like they’re great whites and he’s bleeding out. Scott takes two steps back, and Stiles stands unsteadily, bracing himself on the concrete wall and breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Scott repeats, more quietly, forcing any panic out of his voice.

Stiles looks at him for less than a second before his eyes sink back to the floor and he takes a huge steadying breath, “Nothing, really. Just a stupid human caught in the middle of a werewolf fight.”

“Stiles…” Scott says, and Stiles eyes are immediately on him again, daring him to challenge the offered explanation, but Scott can’t help it, “You’re a lousy liar.”

That awful smile is back, but Stiles’ eyes have moved on. He takes a step away from the wall, and nearly stumbles back the floor again, but steadies himself before he actually falls. Scott doesn’t touch him. But Stiles flinches and looks at him defensively, anyway, “It’s nothing, Scott. Is everyone else alright? The alphas are gone?”

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s fine,” _Except you,_ Scott doesn’t say, “Isaac’s banged up, but he’ll be okay. And the alphas scattered for the moment.”

Stiles nods, one of his arms is wrapped around his stomach protectively, and mutters something that doesn’t seem to really be words.

“What?”

“Never mind. Everything’s just fine, then,” he stumbles again.

“Please let me help you,” Scott says, a little desperate, Stiles, his best friend, is hurt and exhausted and he smells of burnt out fear and anger. And of the alpha pack, but all of them smell of the alpha pack. And he won’t even let Scott touch him.

Stiles takes another deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically, “Just…just help me get back to my car.”

“Sure. Of course,” Scott says and is immediately at Stiles’ side, lifting one of his arms over his shoulders. The way Stiles tenses and seems to just hold himself back from flinching away is so dramatic as to be nearly comical, were it any other situation.

Up close, the smell of the other pack on Stiles is ridiculously strong. And there’s another scent, more familiar, dancing right under it. But Scott can hear how Stiles’ heart is racing and he tries to ignore it in favor of helping his friend back in the direction of the car.

“Can you even drive?”

He hears Stiles grit his teeth, but when he answers his voice is clear of the sound, “Scott, really. I’m fine. I just got in the way when I shouldn’t have. That’s what I get for spending so much time around you wolves, I forget that I don’t have the super cool super powers, too. But everything’s cool. Quit worrying.”

“Do you want me to tell Derek?”

Stiles snorts, “Tell him what? That I got beat up? No thank you.”

Scott throws Stiles a sidelong glance, but Stiles is watching the ground, “He’ll want to know.”

Stiles’ voice is shocking poisonous when he says, “I’m sure he will.”

Scott remains silent as he slowly walks Stiles back to his car. Stiles, shockingly, maintains a similar silence, only his is punctuated by occasional gasps of pain that he’s trying not to let Scott hear.

It’s not until Stiles is in the jeep and Scott is watching him drive away that he is able to identify the scent that was hiding under the enemy pack’s.

Peter Hale.


	2. Confession

 

The walk back to the remains of the Hale house seems to take a very long time, though it can’t take more than three minutes. Everything stinks of forest and blood and strangers and fear, the smell is so strong that Scott wonders if it will ever get out of his nose. His head is buzzing with the comedown from adrenalin and confusion. There was simply no reason for Stiles to have been hurt that badly. Scott's no stranger to having the people he cares about used against him, and he knows Derek is bitterly familiar with the concept as well. And what was the point of hurting Stiles if it wasn't done in front of them?

And why was Peter Hale's scent all over him?

Scott shakes his head, like that will make it all clear. Shockingly, it doesn't.

"Scott! You alright?"

Isaac. Scott looks up, he's reached the house.

Isaac is leaning against the house, waiting for his wounds to heal. Jackson is curled by the wall as well, looking broody.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Scott replies.

Derek stands protectively in front of them, still breathing a little hard, he glances behind Scott, searching, "Where's Stiles?"

"He- uh," Scott begins, but loses his words once he sees Peter himself, staring at him from just inside the house's door. He looks all...gloaty. But then, Scott thinks Peter generally looks pretty gloaty. So that might be nothing. He forces himself to continue, "Stiles went home. He got hurt pretty bad."

Derek's eyebrows twitch in what Scott's pretty sure is concern.

"What happened?" Peter asks and something about his tone makes the hairs on Scott's neck stand up. He has to work hard to keep the wolf from showing for a moment.

"Not really sure, to be honest," Scott says, and then looks back to Derek, "Is that all the violence for tonight? Cuz I really need to check on Stiles."

Derek nods, "Go."

Scott turns before anyone else can say anything, and runs. They can talk shop tomorrow. He needs to find out what the fuck happened to Stiles.

...............

Stiles has driven most of the way back to his house before he realizes that he's moved.

He hates that. That’s just one more thing about this evening to hate. Blacking out. Awesome.

As he pulls into his driveway, the air seems to decide it's not a big fan of being in his lungs and he sits for several minutes, just working on inhaling enough oxygen. And getting his hands to release their death grip on the steering wheel. Which is starting to seem useless. Maybe he could just stay here. He could just spend the rest of his life stuck in the front seat of his damned crappy jeep. And honestly, if he can't catch his breath, the rest of his life won't be very long.

After endless minutes, he manages to begin dragging in human sized gulps of air, as opposed to hamster sized. Hamster feels more appropriate, though. He’s feeling pretty small and defenseless right now. And angry. Really, really blisteringly angry.

Fucking werewolves.

Stiles finally gathers himself enough to be able to stumble out of the car, the feeling returning slowly to his unsteady limbs. He's fairly certain that he can smell the wolves on him. It makes him feel sick. No. No, it doesn't. He takes a deep breath. He can hold it together. It’s alright. he's just gonna take a shower and go to sleep forever and when he wakes up it will turn out that this whole night was a really awful lucid dream. At least, that's the plan.

Unfortunately, when he makes his unsteady way to the front door, it's locked. He expected that. Beacon Hills may be a small town, but his father is still the Sheriff, and hey, creepy supernatural murderers everywhere. Stiles fumbles with his keys. There's only two of them. It really shouldn't take that long.

But there's not two.

He stares at the key ring in his palm.

His car key is there, obviously. He drove home.

But his house key is gone.

His house key is gone.

His house key is gone.

It keeps repeating in his head, he imagines that the words can be seen floating in concentric circles around him as he stands frozen. He knows he can't have lost it, because Stiles just fucking doesn't lose his house keys. But it's gone. A quiet, almost malevolent voice from the back of his mind whispers, _someone must have taken it_.

Stiles shivers and tries to force the voice back into whatever dark corner it crawled out of. That doesn't make sense. If someone wanted to stop him getting home, why take the house key? Why not take the key to the jeep? Swallowing hard, he pockets his single key and the issue of the missing one for a later time. Meanwhile, he walks around to the back of the house. If Derek Hale can climb in through his window, then Stiles is perfectly willing to try it himself. (He's aware that doesn't quite follow, but he's had a rough night.) Somehow, he thinks that maybe, if he could do this one simple thing that the wolves can do, just this one thing, maybe tonight really will have been a dream. He’ll wake up with no bruises, no cuts. Everything will be fine. And he definitely won't feel himself slowly slipping out of the numbing cocoon of shock. Resolutely, he begins climbing before that slip cascades into an avalanche and he ends up curled up weeping in the back of his jeep.

He’s barely gotten himself off the ground when he hears a rustle of movement behind him. He freezes, torn between praying it was just a raccoon or something and climbing as fast as he can, or turning to look and discovering it's an alpha who wants...god only knows what. His breathing is speeding up again. Air is once again in limited supply. Dammit. This is not the response he needs to be having. He lifts his hand to pull himself to his open window, and nearly falls off when Scott says, "Stiles, what are you doing?"

A garbled mess of syllables spills from Stiles' lips, as he clutches the side of the house for dear life. He finally manages to gather himself enough to respond, "Climbing my house. What does it look like I'm doing?"

“You have a door.”

“It’s locked.”

“You have a key.”

Stiles heaves a deep breath, “…It’s gone.”

“You lost it?”

“Yes. No. I have no idea. It’s just gone, alright?” Stiles reaches for his window again, “So I have to climb the house.”

Scott crunches across the frost covered grass until Stiles knows he’s standing right beneath him, “I could get in and open the door for you.”

“No,” Stiles says, too quickly, but before the air between them can stiffen he says, “No, really. I’ve got this. I’m almost in, see?”

He hauls himself up onto the windowsill and flails one-handed trying to open the window. Scott makes a noise of concern, but Stiles ignores him, and hauls himself gracelessly through his window landing in a painful heap on his bedroom floor. The hard landing opens some of the cuts that had scabbed over, and he can feel the warmth from his own blood trickling down his arms, his back, and his legs. For a moment, he’s shaking so badly that he can’t find the strength to stand.

Scott jumps neatly through the window just as Stiles is finding his way off of the floor with the help of his bed. Stiles hides his trembling arms by crossing them over his chest, staring Scott down and trying to stop his teeth from chattering. It’s a chilly early autumn night, but Stiles feels as though he just jumped into a frozen lake and then been stabbed with icicles.

Scott stands over him, and it doesn’t matter is Stiles doesn’t want to show how much that is not a good thing, because he probably couldn’t look more shaken if he tried. He can’t look at Scott, though he can feel Scott trying to catch his eye.

“Stiles, you’ve got to tell me what happened. What did…what did Peter do?” Scott says, in his best best friend voice.

And then Stiles does look at him, “How did you..? Oh. Scent,” his eyes drift away again, and he closes them, he doesn’t want to see Scott’s face, “It’s...uh…” he feels the bitter smile splitting his face again and shoves it back viciously, “Derek should never have let him back into the pack. He should’ve just killed him again. I’d do it myself, but hey. I have a problem where I’m not actually all that good at killing werewolves.”

Scott fidgets.

Stiles shivers.

“But…Stiles, I’m sorry, but what did he do to you?” Scott says, his voice as clumsy as Stiles was coming through the window.

“He just…fuck, Scott. He’s got some twisted plan, just like he did before. He wants to be a fucking alpha again. And he offered the stupid alpha pack a…a trade,” Stiles’ voice catches and he bites his tongue. He knows he needs to say something but…not to Scott. If he could, he’d rather not tell anyone. The whole thing is so incredibly humiliating.

Scott is a line of tension as he asks, “What do you mean a trade?”

Stiles runs his hands over his face, and then hides behind them, his words muffled by his own flesh, “He called it a peace offering. Said it was traditional. To offer one of the pack’s mates in trade, and the invading pack will leave. But you can only offer your, own, of course, so he…well, you could smell it. So the alphas would think that…would think that I belonged to him. He said I stank of Derek. That Derek has been…it doesn’t matter,” Stiles pulls his hands away from his face, allowing them to catch the skin under his eyes, as though Scott doesn’t already know that he’s crying.

Scott says nothing. Stiles doesn’t want to look at him to see what has face is saying. His own hands, curled in his lap, are far more interesting.

“I just...can you leave now? I’ll talk to Derek in the morning or whatever. I need to sleep. Please,” the last word comes out without Stile’s permission, and he wishes he could reclaim it. The way he flinches as it hits the air probably gets the message across.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Stiles, I-” but if Scott has something to say, it sticks in his throat.

Stiles lies down on the bed and turns his back to Scott.

“I’m really sorry,” he thinks he hears Scott whisper.

Stiles lifts his head to say, well, he’s not really sure what he was going to say. And it doesn’t matter because Scott pulled a Derek and is gone.

Stiffly, Stiles forces himself off the bed and slides the window shut, locking it.

It's several long hours before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda shocked that this got any response at all. Let alone the rather large one (from my tiny fic author perspective) it has gotten. I'm so glad all of you like it. And I hope I continue to please.  
> Expect another update next Tuesday or Wednesday.


	3. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder to heed the warnings. (Seriously, heed the warnings.)

_Stiles: Now_

When Stiles wakes up, the sky is a gray that isn’t there and his locked window is covered in frost.

Beside his head on the pillow there is a note.

There are two words written on it in an angular spider-scrawl.

It says:

_They accepted._

……………

_Scott: One Week Ago_

Scott knows that Stiles has a crush on Derek. It’s been kind of hard to miss. Stiles-with-a-crush is far from the king of subtlety. So of course Scott knew. Scott also knows that Derek is crushing right back. Well, no. Derek would probably kill him for calling it a “crush.” But still. That’s what it is.

At least, that’s what Scott had assumed.

Until he maybe sort-of overheard a conversation he probably definitely wasn’t really supposed to hear.

Derek and Peter were arguing. This wasn’t surprising. They argued a lot, and Scott wonders if Derek knows how much he smells like fear when their arguments finish. Which Scott gets, because Peter is frightening. It’s not like he does anything all that scary, but every time Scott thinks he can trust him, he remembers finding the pieces of Laura Hale, he remembers Lydia, and he remembers all the dead bodies. And then he sees Peter smile and knows he can’t ever trust him.

Besides the fact that Derek still hasn’t explained how exactly Peter ended up being alive again, which was super special creepy in and of itself.

If this argument had been like all the others, Scott would have ignored it.

Their normal arguments are short blasts of vicious fury over next to nothing, that end with Peter skulking off somewhere and Derek staring after him, breathing like he just went six rounds with a kanima. Then one of the betas, and sometimes Stiles, will come in and make some crack at him, or anything, just to get him back to his normal level of deadpan.

This time, Scott can tell by the ragged edges of their voices that this has been going on for a while. He’s not sure if he should be trying not to listen or not, but once he hears Stiles’ name the decision is made for him. And he stops dead, still thirty yards from the Hale house, hoping that Derek are Peter are too involved in their discussion to have noticed him yet. It certainly sounds as though they are.

Scott listens.

“-Stiles is. How did you even know?” Derek’s angry mutter is familiar by now.

“Oh, please. Like you’re not incredibly obvious. And besides, you think I don’t know how a wolf behaves when they think they’ve found their mate? I’ve seen you do this before, Derek.”

“Shut up.”

“Good comeback. One for the books. Seriously, though, this kid? Stiles? Really?”

Derek is silent.

“Boy, you sure know how to pick ‘em. Aside from most of his other glaringly obvious flaws, have you noticed the age difference? Because, sweetheart, that’s kind of a big gap there. I know you’ve been enjoying playing in the kiddie pool, but really-”

“Just stop it, will you? I never said I would act on it.”

“But this time you think it’s real,” Derek makes a noise of protest, but Peter continues over him, “I can smell it on you. Hell, we can all smell it on you. You really think you’re in love.”

Peter laughs.

Derek growls a warning.

“He’s not your mate, Derek,” Peter says it like he’s speaking to a small child who has needed something simple explained a hundred times.

This time, Derek’s growl is real and feral, and Scott fights the urge to duck his head. Peter’s voice still has a grin in it, though, as he says, “He’s not yours.”

Peter leaves, and Scott has a momentary flash of panic that Peter is heading his way, but he seems to disappear farther into the house. Derek is the one who heads out the front door and begins heading in Scott’s direction.

…………

_Stiles: Now_

He doesn’t actually want to think about it. Ever. He would erase it from his mind if he could, bury it in the sands and let it stay gone. Let tomb robbers have at it, take it all away. Because he never wants to think about it again. He never ever, ever wants to think about it again.

It isn’t, however, content with keeping quiet in the back of his mind.

_“Most of the old traditions,” Peter’s voice is harsh and breathless in his ear and he hates it so, so much, “Don’t actually require a human mate’s consent for just about anything.”_

_He forces Stiles’ arm up higher on his back and Stiles holds his breath to keep from whimpering pathetically, even as Peter’s leg insinuates itself between his own, forcing them apart._

_“Not even for the actual bonding.”_

He’s not thinking about it. It’s just playing out behind his eyelids every time he blinks. He’s starting to hate even those few second of darkness and it hasn’t even been twenty four hours.

Stiles had managed a few hours of precious dreamless sleep through pure exhaustion, but once the dreams started sleep escaped him as though it had never been there. And now there’s the note. Just touching the paper makes him feel sick, and though he won’t admit it to even himself, he’s trembling.

He forces himself to crumple the note into a ball, his hands working on auto pilot and crushing it so small he’s not sure it could be unfolded even if he wanted to see the horrible words again. Then, he burns it with the lighter he keeps in his desk because it’s a useful thing to have. He lets the paper smolder in the empty wastepaper basket.

He can still hear Peter’s voice, slick whispers that make his insides twist into vicious knots, and suddenly his hands are clenching and twitching spasmodically as he tears apart a notebook from his nightstand. Stiles hadn’t even realized he was moving. He sets the scraps of paper and corkscrewed metal binding down cautiously, like he’s afraid of what he might be capable of should he continue to hold onto them.

Just as he’s running his hands across his scalp, trying desperately to calm his rapidly beating heart, he freezes. A deer in the headlights, a rabbit who spotted the wolf – there was a creak on the stairs. For half an instant, it is absolutely silent. Stiles doesn’t dare draw a breath, waiting. Listening.

The creak of the bottom step radiates through Stiles’ being like an electric shock.

There’s someone humming downstairs.

Stiles looks at the clock, praying that it’s early, early enough that his father is still here. It has to be his father. Please.

But, of course, Stiles doesn’t have anything resembling that kind of luck and the clock informs him that it is long past eight and his father is definitely at work.

He can’t help but think that there’s a monster downstairs.

…………

_Scott: One Week Ago_

“Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap…” Scott murmurs. Or rather, tries not to murmur, but ends up doing it anyway. He starts to retreat, backpedaling into the woods as quietly as he can.

Not nearly quietly enough of course, but he hopes it gets the point across that he’s really only interested in leaving.

Derek’s voice, still poisoned with anger, lets him know he’s wrong, “Scott. What are you doing here?”

Wincing, Scott stops and turns.

Derek, naturally, is right behind him, glowering, “How much did you hear?”

Scott, still not sure how to react to what he just heard, finds his mouth opening and closing with nonsense syllables as he tries to formulate a reaction.

“How much did you hear, Scott?” Derek steps forward, trying for menacing, but mostly it just gets Scott’s hackles up.

Pulling himself together enough to return the glare, Scott says, “You should tell Stiles.”

“Shockingly, that’s none of your business,” Derek shoots back.

“Peter seems convinced that it’s his,” Scott says. He’s unable to pull off menacing the way Derek is, but he pulls his shoulders straight and stares Derek down.

“Peter’s my uncle. He’s pretty involved.”

“Stiles is my best friend. I’m pretty involved.”

Derek’s breath leaves him as suddenly as if he had been hit and they glare at one another silently.

“I can’t,” Derek says finally, his eyes sinking away from Scott’s and his voice quiet.

Scott twists, biting his lip. He shouldn’t say anything. He and Derek’s alliance is tentative at best and this is Stiles’ business. So he hesitates before saying, in a voice so quiet that it should barely be audible over the sound of the leaves, “He likes you, you know.”

Derek’s eyes flick up to meet his and are gone again so quickly that Scott isn’t totally sure that it happened. But he says, “I know,” his voice just tight as it is quiet, “But I can’t.”

Scott stares at him, unsure if there’s anything he could say, let alone should. Derek studies the forest floor with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“You should go,” Derek says stiffly.

Scott nods.

Derek doesn’t move as he leaves, remaining still and frozen as Scott turns and allows himself to disappear back into the trees.

…………..

_Stiles: Now_

The monster downstairs exchanges the hum for a whistle as they move farther into the house, like whatever it was wants to be certain Stiles can hear it. A cabinet opens and closes in the kitchen. Stiles struggles to keep breathing in his bedroom, panic a tight, familiar animal in his chest.

_He’s breathing hard and shaking when Peter pulls out of him. He tries to push himself away from the wall but Peter still has his arm pinned to his against his back, twisted high and wrong and his limbs aren’t responding correctly. He’s aware that it has to do with the sticky blood drying on the side of his face, but all his thoughts feel disconnected and distant._

_Peter had cracked his head against the wall when he’d tried to push him away. And then again and again when Stiles couldn’t get his mouth to stop spilling words like his head was spilling blood. Somewhere far away he thinks he hears a zipper being closed._

_The cold of the cement wall is biting into his skin through his shirt. He shivers a little harder._

_His fear and the pain have faded to a pleasant background buzz and Stiles thinks he might have a concussion, but his worry about that is as distant as his fear. His arm pulses with the dulled pain, as do other things. But he allows himself to fall back into his own thoughts rather than think about that._

_It takes Peter shaking him roughly for him to notice Peter was speaking at him again. Peter presses against him and his fear is back with him. He waits for his own mouth to start moving, but no words come out. His brain is aching with how quickly it’s spewing words but his mouth is too slow to follow. Panic builds in his chest, pulling the walls of his ribs around itself like a security blanket._

_Peter’s voice eats into him, bitter acid, “I need you to pay attention, Stiles. This is the important bit.”_

There are the ghosts of hands touching him and he forces himself to stand and pull out of their reach, walking to the door, groping for a weapon as he goes.

His hand is on the doorknob, and he inhales deeply, trying to steady himself and wishing he’d invested in that hunting knife. But the jeep needed new tires and oh god the footsteps are moving back towards the stairs and all he has in his hand is a textbook and that is not much use against a werewolf, beta or no.

The footsteps are making their quiet way up the stairs. But Stiles knows the creaks of his own house well enough to know exactly where they are.

Knuckles rap against his door, he can feel the vibration of them through the wood, and he feels like he’s going to have a panic attack. He presses his body against the door, trying to hold it shut with his weight. A painfully familiar voice in the hallway laughs at him, “Are you afraid of the big bad wolf, Stiles?”

  
The laughter continues, quiet and confident, and something in Stiles snaps. He rips open the door and throws the book as hard as he can at Peter. He has no concrete plan, but he knows he’s not just going fucking stand here and take it again.

  
The book crashes against the wall and maybe makes a dent and his dad is going to be pissed about that and Stiles is halfway down the stairs before he realizes there is no one following him. He pauses, turning slowly to look at the empty hallway. Because it is empty. There’s no one there. No Peter. No anyone.

  
He just chucked a textbook at empty space.

  
A bubble of hysterical laughter bursts from his lips, and he collapses against the wall, trying to control it, sinking to sit on the steps. He’s losing his mind. God, one little scarring trauma and look at him, hallucinating monsters. Pathetic.

  
It’s only after when he feels wetness drip into the collar of his shirt that he realizes he’s crying.

He swipes at the tears with an angry hand, and after a few steadying breaths, pulls himself away from the edge and stands. He’s unsteady on his feet, but he forces them to carry him back up the stairs, his knuckles white on the banister, as he continues to take deep breathes. His eyes flick desperately over the empty hallway, like the hallucinatory Peter is hiding in a corner waiting for him to let his guard down again.

  
Tears are still falling slowly from his eyes as he slips into the bathroom and washes his face without looking at himself. When he grips the counter, he looks at his arms and has to swallow another burst of hysterical laughter. He doesn’t have to see his fact to know he looks like shit. Now that he’s coming down from his adrenaline high, he can feel the steady aching pulse of pain coming from the wound on his head. He’s sure it’s an ugly horrible thing, he can feel that it runs most of the right side of his hairline.

  
He smiles grimly to himself. He needs to get out of the house. He’s vulnerable here. Whether or not that Peter was just his mind playing horrible, horrible tricks on him, it doesn’t change the fact that Peter was in his house. Peter, that fucker, has his fucking house key.

  
He grips the counter so tightly that he can feel it cutting into his palms.

  
He can’t stay here.

  
He can’t stay here. Here, where Peter probably watched him sleep. Here, where he could have…maybe Stiles’ wouldn’t have even woken up if…

The bathroom floor meets his knees hard as he collapses and retches into the toilet. His skin is crawling. He peels of his shirt, and the air feels like ice on his sweat-covered skin.

It feels as though his brain is literally buzzing as he slowly puts together his plan for the day. And it sinks a deep pit in his stomach, but the only place he can think of that would be filled with people right now is school. And Stiles is pretty sure that despite how incredibly horrifying the prospect of large numbers of people is right now that it will be better than being alone. Or, well, safer. For a few hours.

He needs some time to think, and he needs that time somewhere where he won’t be having a heart attack every time there’s a noise. Then he can really plan.

Stiles grits his teeth and hauls himself to his feet once more. He desperately needs a shower.

…………

_Scott: Now_

“Derek!” Scott yells, rage making his voice feel hard and sharp in his throat.

There is no response from the Hale House’s half-heartedly repaired shell, and Scott yells again. The word feels like it cuts his throat.

“What are you yelling for?”

Scott whirls around; Isaac is walking out of the woods, looking tired and confused.

“You’re being incredibly loud,” he complains.

“Where’s Derek? I have to talk to him. Now.”

“What’s wrong?” Isaac asks, moving like he’s going to put his hand on Scott’s shoulder.

Scott ducks out of the way, “Isaac. Please.”

Isaac pulls his hand back and slips it into his pockets, leaning back, “He should be here in a minute. We were just patrolling. Why aren’t you at school?”

“Why aren’t you?” Scott says, his lips twitching in a tense smile. His insides are twisting with anger and fear and a million what-ifs and something poisonous seeping throughout it all that he knows is guilt.

Isaac smirks and says nothing.

Over Isaac’s shoulder, Scott sees Derek coming out of the woods, wrapped in his leather jacket and glowering. He sees Scott and glowers harder.

“What’s wrong?”

Scott swallows, his anger burning through him again and for an instant he thinks he might change, and he struggles with it for a moment, pushing the wolf back down before stepping around Isaac to fix Derek with his own glare, “Peter raped Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long with this update, life and this fic specific writer's block kinda stonewalled me for a while. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read it and enjoyed it (well, enjoyed may not be the right word). It really means so much to me. Thank you especially if you're still here after seven months. Hopefully the next updates will not take so long, and it definitely will include Derek's first pov.
> 
> (Also, special thanks to my friend who read this even through this fic she hasn't seen season 2 yet and didn't really want to be spoiled but did it anyway so that she could help me fight through the incredibly solid wall I had run into in regards to this fic.)

**Author's Note:**

> .


End file.
